For Susannah
by bluedana
Summary: Post Mirror Image. Sam leaps into Tyler Wallace, a loving husband and a devoted father to a deaf little girl. History says Tyler murdered his wife and left his daughter traumatized. Sam's not so sure.


**Author's Note:** This story first appeared as part of _Quantum Leap: The Virtual Seasons_, at_ www (dot) quantumleap-alsplace (dot) com (slash) virtualseasons._ The Producer of _QL:TVS_ has graciously agreed to allow me to archive this story on this site. _QL:TVS_ is set post-_Mirror Image_, and Sam, having returned to the Project briefly, has a young son.

**Disclaimer:** Quantum Leap is the property of Bellisarius Productions; I'm not making any money off of this fanfiction.

**FOR SUSANNAH,  
by bluedana**

**PROLOGUE**

Sam came awake abruptly. He noticed that he was in bed, lying underneath a woman who was busy kissing her way down his bare chest. He put his hands on her shoulders, intending, he was pretty sure, to push her away and ask her politely to stop. Somehow it happened, however, that she slid her way back up his body, her silky nightgown causing delicious sensations to tingle along his skin. She put her hands on either side of his head, and Sam found himself looking into the face of a beautiful black woman. He opened his mouth to say something intelligent, but all he heard was an inarticulate moan, which was stifled when she placed her mouth on his.

With a groan, Sam gave in too easily. He wrapped his arms around her slim body and rolled over on top of her. The straps of her powder blue nightie were pushed aside so that he could kiss her shoulder and neck. He heard her laugh in delight but had no other thought besides capturing her mouth. She stroked his back as he kissed her deeply.

A slight movement of pink caught the corner of his eye. Without removing his mouth from hers, he turned his head slightly -- and froze. Standing right next to the bed was a little girl, maybe three or four years old, gazing at him with solemn eyes. With difficulty, he pulled himself away from his partner, who resisted. "Oh, boy," he said, mortified, and closed his eyes.

**PART ONE**

**June 10, 1983  
Springfield, Massachusetts**

Sam's partner finally noticed the little girl and sighed. "Hello, my own little alarm clock," she said, unembarrassed, peering at the digital display beside the bed. "Dead on time, too. You know, I think you have a computer chip inside you or something." She slid out from underneath Sam and sat up on the edge of the bed. The little girl crawled up onto her lap and hugged her tightly. Sam wished they would both go away so that he could get dressed.

The woman stood with the girl still in her arms and paused to push her feet into fuzzy white slippers. Her nightie clung to her body in ways that made Sam look away. "Don't go back to sleep, sweetie, or you'll be late for work. I'll put the coffee on."

From beneath the blanket, Sam muttered an "Okay," and waited for the two of them to leave. He peeked beneath the covers and was vastly relieved to notice that he was wearing pajama bottoms. Gingerly, he climbed out of the bed and walked over to the dressing table. His reflection stared back at him warily. He was a black man with a closely cropped natural hairstyle. Unsmiling, he looked a little like Sydney Poitier in his prime. He was in very good shape from what Sam could see. He lifted his chin and sucked in his already flat-as-a-washerboard stomach. He was so pleased with himself that he didn't hear the Chamber door open and shut behind him.

"I've never seen you primp like that before, Sam," Al said, smirking.

"I'm not primping," Sam answered, miffed. "I'm just inspecting. Although if I'm going to be looking like someone else, this is not a bad someone to look like."

"Mmm," Al said, "well, if you can tear yourself away from the mirror, Narcissus, I'll give you a report on what we know so far."

Sam walked into the bathroom and smeared some toothpaste onto his toothbrush. "What's got you in such a bad mood?" he wanted to know.

"Nothing," Al growled. Sam waited. "I used to look like that, once upon a time, you know."

"You were an attractive black man?" Sam laughed.

Al shot him a grumpy look. "I was pretty good looking in my day. I could have graced the pages of _Playgirl_, easy." Sam stuck the toothbrush in his mouth to keep from replying. "Yeah, maybe I could stand to lose a few pounds, but I'm in damn fine shape for a man my age."

Sam kept his expression carefully serious. "Beth's got you on a new diet, huh?" he guessed, pulling both a name and a beautiful face out of one of the crevices of his unreliable memory. Al simply poked at the handlink, pouting. "Well, I think you look just fine. Get her in the Chamber and I'll talk to her."

"Not in that body you won't," Al answered sharply.

"Okay," Sam said, smiling through a mouthful of foam. "Well, then. I'm sure you two will work it out. In the meantime . . ." He lifted his eyebrows expectantly.

Al punched some keys on the handlink. "Your name is Tyler Wallace, age thirty. That gorgeous lady out there is your wife, Lyssa." Sam couldn't help it; he blushed. "I see you've already met her," Al added. "It is June tenth, nineteen eighty-three, and you are a computer programmer. You design software."

"Well, what am I here to do?" Sam asked. He rinsed his mouth with warm water.

"We don't have any data yet, but as soon as we do, I'll let you know." Al opened the Chamber door. "I've got some stuff to take care of, but I'll be back."

"Tell Beth I said hello," Sam teased. Al glared at him and disappeared. Sam turned on the shower, chuckling, and stepped under the spray.

Freshly showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a short sleeved white shirt with blue stripes, Sam presented himself at the breakfast table. Lyssa was pouring coffee into a cup bearing the legend, "World's Greatest Dad," which Sam assumed was his. He sat down at the table next to the little girl. She was now dressed in a red cotton jumper with a white blouse underneath. She stared at him solemnly, without speaking. Lyssa planted a kiss on the top of Sam's head as she dashed by. "I'm going to jump in the shower," she said, over her shoulder. "Your toast is almost done. Honey, make sure she eats her cereal, okay?"

"Uh, okay," Sam answered, but the bathroom door was already closing. He looked at the little girl and smiled cautiously. She watched his face. She held her spoon in her right hand, but made no move to resume eating her breakfast. "I think your mom wants you to finish your breakfast," Sam suggested. She didn't say anything. The toast popped up and Sam left the table gratefully. He had no experience with children, at least he didn't think he had. Anyway, this one made him nervous as she silently watched him move across the kitchen to retrieve his breakfast, and then return to the table. He buttered his toast under her unwavering gaze, trying to think of something to say.

A few minutes later, Lyssa returned, tying the belt of her paisley dress. "She's not finished with her breakfast?" she asked, a little exasperated. "Tyler. . ."

Sam looked at his plate. "Your mom wants you to eat your cereal," he said to the child.

Lyssa put the cup of coffee she had just poured down onto the table. In the tone that the patient reserve for the slow-witted, she said, "Tyler. If you're not going to sign, at least let her see your mouth move. That's the only way she's going to learn." She walked over to the child and, crouching in front of her, slowly signed and spoke aloud simultaneously, "Susannah, eat your breakfast. Mommy and Daddy have got to go to work. Okay?" Susannah turned back to her cereal and put a spoonful into her mouth. Sam was too astounded to say anything. It had not occurred to him at all that the child was deaf.

Lyssa wolfed down half a piece of toast. "Honey, don't forget about my staff meeting tonight," she said, carrying the breakfast dishes to the sink.

Sam glanced up from watching the child finish her cereal. "Meeting?" he echoed, and she said, disappointment lacing her voice, "You didn't make other plans, did you? Oh, honey, you promised to stay with Susannah. There's no way I can get a sitter now."

"Oh, I didn't forget," Sam said hastily, which wasn't a lie. "I - it just slipped my mind, that's all." He gulped the rest of his tepid coffee. "No problem."

Lyssa approached him from behind and looped her arms around his neck. She nuzzled his jaw and murmured, "Promise me one thing, honey?"

Sam forgot about the four year old. "Mmm, anything."

"No anchovies or beer for the kid."

Sam opened his eyes and looked at his wife. "Excuse me?"

Lyssa smiled. "I seem to remember the last time I left you with the baby, you gave her anchovy pizza and half a bottle of beer while you all watched the playoffs. And then I had to deal with cranky, heartburned, hung-over baby. Peanut butter and jelly with milk is just fine for her, okay?" She nodded her head and Sam nodded with her. She straightened and pulled on a black blazer. "Good. Yikes, look at the time - can we get a move on, please, guys? You know what happens when the teacher's late."

"The inmates take over the asylum," Sam said and Lyssa narrowed her eyes at him.

Susannah was still watching him warily. She kept her distance from him and instead reached for her mother's free hand. That was fine with Sam, who didn't have the faintest clue how to deal with the child, anyway. Lyssa handed him the keys to the car as they went out the door, reminding him that he was going to drop her off at school and take the car; she would take the bus home.

First, they dropped Susannah off at her babysitter's house. The little girl gave Sam one last silent, suspicious look as the middle aged woman led her into the back yard.

There was very little conversation as they drove to the high school where Lyssa worked as an English teacher. Sam drove automatically. On some Leaps he had to ask directions to get around; other times, like this Leap, he simply drove where his instincts and the residual habit of the person he had Leaped into told him to go. Lyssa perused some papers in her lap as Sam wondered what he was here to do. He glanced at his "wife," wondering distantly what it would be like to be married with a child and a normal life, a life of his own. He tried to imagine getting up every day and going to the same job and coming home to the same two people who loved him. He tried to remember what it was like to wake up and know his own name, instead of waiting in breathless uncertainty for Al to appear and tell him his vital statistics. He pulled into a small parking lot.

Lyssa leaned over and kissed him. Sam surprised himself by holding her closely for a few extra heartbeats. He wanted for a few more moments to be just her husband, Tyler, computer programmer and father to a child who was deaf, if he couldn't be Sam Beckett. Lyssa pressed her lips to his forehead. "I love you, Ty. Have a good day, honey."

Sam's soft "You, too," was lost in the slamming of the car door. He watched as Lyssa dashed up the stairs and disappeared into the dreary-looking brick building.

He put the car into first, then moved the gear shift back to neutral. His mind was a blank. He didn't know where he worked. Inspiration hit, and he dug out a business card from his worn leather wallet. "Takes a rocket scientist," he muttered, reading the card. Tyler worked at DataComp Systems, a term that sounded vaguely familiar to Sam. He looked up the address on the map he found in the glove compartment, and blessed his stars that he was less than ten blocks away from his office.

His "office" turned out to be a small four foot square cubicle with two computer terminals and not much else. Tyler's work was kept neatly labeled in several three ringed binders, alphabetically arranged. Sam stood for a moment, surveying the carefully printed formulas. Some of the computer language looked familiar, if dated, and it took him a moment to realize that while this was a very basic program, it was not so different, in theory, from Ziggy's incredibly complex, integrated personality. In fact, he noticed as he sat in the swivel chair, Tyler was actually not so far off from the principle of the hybrid personality computer program that gave Ziggy her charm.

"Tyler," a voice boomed behind him. "I thought I told you about getting here late. Didn't I?"

Sighing, Sam turned around to face a thick-necked, pink-faced overweight man. Because he was still seated, he was eye-level with a hanging gut. He looked up, then glanced at his watch. It was two minutes past eight. He decided that pointing this out would be a bad move, so instead he smiled apologetically and offered, "Well, you know, it's hard to get everyone out of the house . . ." He trailed off as it became evident that this person was not impressed.

After a disdainful pause, the pink-faced man said, "I expect you to make up the time at the end of the day." Sam shrugged and turned back to his desk. He felt a hand on his shoulder and stiffened. "You hear me?"

"I hear you," Sam forced out between tight lips. He felt the heat rising to his face.

"Don't cross me," Pink-Face warned and walked away, muttering under his breath.

"You shoulda belted him," Al growled from beside him.

Sam scowled. "Yeah, I'm sure that would've accomplished a lot." He turned back to his desk and clicked the monitor on. While he waited for the computer to warm up, he said, "You didn't tell me the little girl was deaf."

"Tyler, the guy you Leaped into, was a little frantic after he Leaped in. I didn't find out until I had a chance to talk to him just now. Let's see," Al said as he punched a few buttons on his handlink. "You're Tyler - oh, you know that already. Uh, your daughter, Susannah, is four years old. When she was two and a half, she contracted meningitis and nearly died. She lost her hearing as a result of it. She spends her days with a babysitter who is also tutoring her in sign language. Tyler works a lot of overtime hours to pay for the medical bills and the special teacher. Likes his job; hates his boss. Can't say I blame him there."

"What am I here to do?" Sam typed in a few basic commands and gained access to Tyler's half-written program.

Al's pause made him look up at his holographic friend. The expression on Al's face told him that something tragic was about to happen. "What is it?" he asked softly, wishing that he didn't have to know.

"Tomorrow, Lyssa disappears after a school outing. Her body is found in the woods two days later, dead of multiple stab wounds." He stopped and fished uncomfortably in his pocket for a cigar.

Sam could read his friend well enough after all this time to know that there was more. And that it was worse. He waited for Al to light his cigar, which seemed to take forever, then asked quietly, "What else?"

"Tyler gets arrested for the murder."

Sam stared. "That can't be right." Al didn't say anything, only waited for Sam to accept history. Sam fought it. "Tyler couldn't kill his wife. He loves her too much."

"Well, how do you know that?" Al asked reasonably.

"I just feel it, all right?" Sam swallowed back the defensive tone. "I've seen her look at me, and I can just - just feel that Tyler adores her. Why would he kill her?" He shook his head. "Ziggy must be wrong."

"Sam," Al said, "the data is right there. Tyler gets arrested. For killing Lyssa."

"Well, maybe he didn't do it." Sam was getting that truculent look on his face; Al could tell that this argument was going nowhere. "Maybe there's another suspect. Maybe I'm here to prove Tyler didn't do it." He stopped abruptly. "Wait. You said he gets _arrested_. You didn't say anything about a conviction."

"That's because," Al said slowly, "there's never any trial. The prosecutor eventually drops the case for lack of evidence, but Tyler never actually gets exonerated. He lives under a cloud of suspicion for the rest of his life, which, it turns out, isn't very long. He –" Al grimaced here and looked uncomfortable, "he hangs himself a few months later."

Sam closed his eyes and felt his body grow cold.

Al put the last piece in place, reluctantly. "The suicide note just said, 'Forgive me, Lyssa.'"

Sam suddenly felt the compulsion to move but had nowhere to go. He kept his voice at a strained whisper. "Uh-uh. That's crazy. Ziggy's one hundred percent wrong this time – "

"Ziggy says it's a seventy-nine percent chance that you're here so that Tyler doesn't kill Lyssa," Al interrupted calmly. The handlink beeped in agreement.

"But that's not going to work," Sam argued, "if Tyler didn't kill his wife the first time around."

Al sighed. He would let Sam win this round so that they could come up with a plan. "Okay. Let me run some scenarios about another suspect. In the meantime, can we _please_ just go on the assumption that somehow you're supposed to keep Lyssa from getting killed tomorrow?"

Sam half-smiled, sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I'll try to think of something." The Chamber door opened and closed, and a voice behind him said, "It's artificial intelligence, Wallace, but it won't talk back." Sam just barely stifled the urge to punch the arrogant smirk off that pudgy pink face. He hunched his shoulders and stared into the screen, certain that Ziggy was wrong about Tyler.

**

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**

PART TWO

Lyssa sat down at her desk with a sigh. She had given up her lunch hour to oversee a study hall full of bored, restless teenagers. Between signing hall passes to the bathroom, where, she was certain, the students gathered to sneak a smoke, she had handled the numerous small disciplinary problems which inevitably arise in a period designed to encourage as little productive activity as possible. Those papers she had promised herself she would grade had lain, unmarked, off to the side of the desk. Her mood was not improved by the fact that she had never gotten around to eating lunch; her fellow English teacher, Jack Champlain, had promised to save her a seat in the cafeteria, but she'd agreed instead to cover the study hall for another colleague with a headache. She pressed a hand to her rumbling stomach and opened her grammar book as the first of her senior class English composition students filed reluctantly into the room.

A folded sheet of paper fell out from between the pages of the grammar book. She didn't recognize it; maybe Tyler had slipped it in this morning. She unfolded it and read it. The handwriting was definitely not Tyler's. The sentiment expressed in the few lines printed there caused her to blush furiously. Quickly, she refolded the sheet and stuffed it in the pocket of her dress. The class seemed not to notice her discomfort; they barely heard the bell signal the start of the class hour. Lyssa cleared her throat and stood to begin her lesson.

Sam spent most of the day dreading the reappearance of the pink-faced man, whose name, he discovered, was Gerald Owens. Unable to solve the problem of Lyssa's death without more information, he relegated it to his formidable subconscious and concentrated on the intricate program Tyler was writing. Having surveyed some of Tyler's finished work, he realized how ambitious this project was. Clearly, Tyler's talent was far above the rest of the programmers, who were creating two dimensional children's video games. Sam recognized some of the components he himself would incorporate into Ziggy's program in eight or ten years. Tyler was mainly on the right track; Sam made some minor adjustments in the calculations.

Gerald walked the floor, overseeing, hovering over programmers' shoulders, peering at the screens. Sam had a feeling that Gerald had no idea what Tyler's project was about; the supervisor simply frowned as he squinted at the digits marching across the screen. Sam glared at him until he left, muttering to himself.

At the end of the day, Sam served his extra two minutes and prepared for his escape. He had skipped lunch, but felt good about having advanced Tyler's program several stages. He was certain he had saved Tyler at least three months' worth of work. He locked his files into the upper right hand drawer, smiling. The phone on his desk rang shrilly. He picked up the receiver and said, "H- hello?" tentatively.

"Hey, baby," Lyssa's rich alto voice rolled into his ear. "Had a good day?"

"I have now," Sam said, his smile growing.

"Well, I know you haven't forgotten you have to pick up Susannah at the sitter's now, because you are my brilliant computer guy and you remember everything."

Sam bluffed well, from long practice. "Of course I didn't forget. I can't believe you'd think I would."

There was a long, telling silence from the other end. "I never doubted for a second," Lyssa said, just a trace of irony in her voice. "And, sweetie?"

"Mm?"

"Peanut butter and jelly, no anchovies. Bye."

The minute she got home, Susannah headed straight for her room, avoiding Sam, and sat on her bed. She had stared out the window throughout the entire ride home, shooting occasional disturbed glances Sam's way. On other Leaps, when Sam had encountered children young enough to see his real form, he had simply explained that he was an angel and that seemed to satisfy them. He was at a loss, though, about how to communicate that explanation to Susannah. Poking around the house, he found several books on sign language. He sat down to read them, hoping to memorize enough to hold a simple conversation with Tyler's daughter.

At about six thirty, Sam dutifully made two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cutting them each into four triangles, and poured two glasses of milk. He stood in Susannah's doorway and motioned for her to come to dinner. She carefully kept at least three paces behind him and crawled with some effort into the chair before Sam could assist her. They ate their dinner without making eye contact. Sam had learned some signs, but could not work up the nerve to try them out on the suspicious four-year-old.

After dinner, Susannah disappeared back into her room, while Sam rinsed the dishes. He went into the living room, turning on lamps, and picked up the sign language books he had left strewn across the floor. He heard the Chamber door open.

"How's the babysitting, Sam?" Al's voice was both sympathetic and amused.

"It's certainly the quietest job I've ever had," Sam remarked. "I don't think she's been within five feet of me all evening."

"Well, you can hardly blame the kid," Al pointed out. "She wakes up one morning and finds this stranger where her daddy used to be, no explanation, no warning. And it's not like she can just ask what's going on."

Sam sighed, then asked, "Al, what happens to Susannah, after Lyssa's death? If Tyler's arrested…?"

Al glanced once at the handlink, but it was clear he had already discovered the answer to that question. "Well, according to the police reports, it seems that Susannah must have seen the murder."

Sam closed his eyes. "No."

"And I guess she's so traumatized," Al continued, "that she just closes up - never signs, never speaks. Never learns to communicate at all. She spends some time in foster care, after Tyler gets arrested, but she's a special needs kid, Sam. None of her relatives were really equipped to take her. They finally institutionalized her after her father's death. She's still there." Al's voice had dropped low. Sam had a vague memory that Al passionately hated institutions.

Sam was about to speak when he caught sight of Susannah standing just inside the doorway. She was staring at Al, her mouth open. Even from where he was standing, Sam could see that she was trembling. In her hands, she held a bottle of baby shampoo, her nightgown, and her comb. Without taking her eyes off Al, she walked slowly over to Sam and handed him the shampoo. Then she backed away slightly.

"Uh, Sam," Al said, "I think it's bath time for baby."

"I don't know anything about giving baths," Sam protested, whispering unnecessarily.

"Oh, it's a piece of cake. Nothing to it," said Al, in the smug tones of a father who has raised four daughters. "Just don't get any shampoo in her eyes. Stings."

"I could use your help here," Sam insisted.

"Relax, you'll do fine. I'll be back as soon as I have some more data," Al answered, stepping backwards into the chamber. He shut the door quickly on Sam's frantic "Al, come back here!" Susannah blinked, gazing at the space where Al used to be. With a groan, Sam moved toward the bathroom, Susannah following decidedly more closely than before.

As far as Sam could tell, the object of bath time was to splash around and generate lots of bubbles. For the first time all day, he saw Susannah smile and heard her laugh out loud. She seemed to have the ritual down. First, they ran about four inches of warm water into the tub, with at least three handfuls of pink powdered bubble bath. When the tub was filled with more bubbles than water, Sam lifted the child in and sat back to watch her play. She surrounded herself with several brightly colored floating toys and seemed to forget Sam was even there. After about ten minutes, she allowed Sam to lather up her hair and then rinse the suds out. By then, the water had cooled and Sam lifted her out carefully and wrapped her in a soft, fluffy towel. All the while, Sam held a one-sided conversation with her and she ignored him.

Once she was powdered and dressed in her nightie, Sam took her back to the living room and sat her next to him on the couch to comb her soft, crinkly hair. He clumsily reconstructed the two long braids on either side of her head, tying them at the bottom with cloth-covered rubber bands. As he finished, Al reappeared.

"What a charming domestic scene," Al teased. "I see you mastered the bath technique." Susannah looked at him and put her thumb into her mouth, inching back toward Sam.

"No thanks to you," Sam said to Al.

Susannah slid off the couch and faced Sam. Her tiny fingers began to move. All at once, Sam realized she was signing. He squinted and said out loud, trying to decipher, "Daddy, sky, go away ... Al, she wants to know if her father is in heaven. She thinks Tyler's dead." Al frowned.

Slowly, struggling to recall some of the motions he'd learned earlier, Sam signed back something he hoped was along the lines of, "Your daddy is fine. Al and I are angels. God sent us to protect your mommy. When your mommy is okay, then God will bring your daddy back home. Okay?"

Susannah gazed at him for a moment. Sam began to think that maybe she hadn't understood, that he had screwed up the signs. Finally, she glanced quickly at Al, then back at Sam, and nodded. "Daddy home soon?" she signed. Al and Sam both nodded vigorously. With that, she climbed back onto Sam's lap and laid her head on his shoulder. Sam looked at Al over the top of her head, humbled by the child's absolute trust. Without thinking about it, he began to sing the first song that popped into his mind, "_Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around. Nothing's gonna harm you, no sir, not while I'm around_ . . ." She lifted her hand to rest on the base of his throat, feeling the vibrations. "_Demons are prowling everywhere, nowadays. I'll send them howling, I don't care, I've got ways. . ." _He held the little girl in his arms, protectively, humming the tune over and over again until he felt her fall asleep.

Al maneuvered his holographic image to sit on the floor, watching silently. He thought about young Stephen, back at the Project, and reflected on the fact that Sam had never had the opportunity to sing his son to sleep like this. Somehow, it didn't seem quite fair that God, Time, Fate, or Whatever saw fit to let his friend have these quiet, beautiful moments with perfect strangers, but not with his own child. Sam himself didn't think he had any sort of knack with children, but the Observer knew better; the Leaper's gentle, unassuming, affable manner allowed kids to trust and accept him, even when, as here, they couldn't comprehend the situation.

An experienced father, he waited until the girl gave that heavy sigh, the one that signaled that she had dropped into a deep sleep, then reluctantly pulled out the handlink. "She's out," he said, indicating the child with his chin. "And Ziggy's got some more information for you."

Sam shifted to a more comfortable position. "Okay, I'm ready."

Al took a deep breath. "Ziggy dug up the grand jury transcripts and the investigative reports. It seems the case against Tyler was circumstantial at best. Lyssa and Susannah went to some school field day picnic thing on Saturday afternoon. Tyler didn't go. Lyssa's colleagues said she told them that Tyler was working overtime. The event was called off early because of rain. The last time anyone saw Lyssa, she was leaving to pick up Tyler from the office. They never made it home." The handlink squawked. "Early in the evening, some motorist noticed Susannah walking alone on the side of the highway and called the police. They found the car abandoned up a dirt road, and, eventually, Lyssa's body about a quarter mile away."

"But you said Tyler was at work," Sam commented, knitting his brow. "What's the evidence against him?"

The Observer studied the readout. "The police didn't buy his alibi. He had no witnesses to back up his story that he was working at the office. It's nineteen eighty-three, Sam; they don't have electronic keycards or anything, you know, to record when you go in and out. And the investigating officer testified that all the little girl kept signing was, 'Daddy,' over and over again."

"She's _four_," Sam emphasized. "She was probably asking for him, not saying he did it."

"Well, that's a matter of interpretation, Sam."

Sam made a derisive noise. "What could possibly be Tyler's motive for killing his wife and leaving his baby daughter to who knows what fate? That's crazy."

Al hesitated. Sam wasn't going to like this, not at all. "There was a witness who testified in the grand jury that he and Lyssa were having an affair."

"What?!" Sam's start caused Susannah to flinch, then she snuggled closer and relaxed again. "What?" he repeated, a bit more quietly. "No. No way is she having an affair." Al didn't say anything. "Okay, who would Lyssa possibly be having an affair with?" Sam challenged.

"We don't know. The witness is only referred to as 'John Doe,' in the transcript. Ziggy's doing some digging, trying to find out his identity. Grand jury testimony isn't made public unless there's a trial, and there wasn't one here." Al bit his lip. "There's one more thing, Sam." He saw his friend visibly brace himself. "Insurance money. Lyssa had a policy through the school district. There was a two hundred fifty thousand dollar policy on her life. According to the prosecutor, that would have gotten Tyler out from under Susannah's medical bills, and gone a long way to pay for special schooling."

Sam opened his mouth to argue some more, then closed it again. He looked down at the sleeping child, an expression of profound sadness clouding his features. "You gotta go talk to Tyler, Al. You talk to him, and then you tell me whether you think this little girl's daddy is a cold-blooded killer." He kept his eyes on Susannah's serene face as the Chamber door opened and then closed with a thud.

**

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**

PART THREE

It was ten o'clock in the evening before the budget meeting adjourned. As teachers and administrators filed out of the school building, clumped together in small groups to continue various discussions, Lyssa waited for her ride. Kelly Sanderson had offered to drive Lyssa home. It wasn't too far out of Kelly's way, and neither woman thought it was safe to take the city bus at that time of night.

Lyssa could see Kelly attempting to extricate herself from an ongoing conversation with one of the school board members. Each step Kelly took toward the door was matched by the board member, who did not, as far as Lyssa could tell, ever stop talking long enough to draw a breath.

"Your husband picking you up?" The masculine voice startled Lyssa. She looked up to find her colleague, Jack Champlain, standing nearby, lighting a cigarette.

She smiled. "Kelly's giving me a ride home. If she can pull herself out of Bob's clutches sometime soon."

He blew a stream of smoke off to the side. "I could take you; it's not that far out of my way."

"Thanks," Lyssa replied, "but I'm okay." She began to shrug into her blazer and shivered. "I hope the picnic doesn't get rained out tomorrow."

"You want me to pick you up in the morning?" Jack stepped closer to help her pull the jacket up onto her shoulders. His hand brushed against her sleeve, and he smiled, a little self-consciously.

"No, Tyler's going to come and help out." She glanced toward the door again, and missed the look of disappointment on Jack's face. Finally, Kelly bolted, tossing an overly cheerful "goodnight" over her shoulder as she made haste for the parking lot.

"Ye _gods_," she said breathlessly, power walking toward her compact Ford. "You'd think we hadn't just sat through a four hour meeting, the way that fool was bending my ear."

Lyssa had to run a few steps to keep up. "I've told you a million times, Bob is hot for you."

Kelly, a divorcee, groaned.

"Did he suggest that you guys go somewhere and grab a cup of coffee to discuss the drama department's budget allocation for next year?" Lyssa asked. Kelly just rolled her eyes. "I rest my case. Trust me, he's not that interested in keeping the cost of sets for _Man of La Mancha_ down." Kelly started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. "Frankly, I don't know why you're fighting so hard."

"Maybe if he looked one tenth as good as Tyler, I wouldn't be fighting at all. But it's Bob Armistead. I mean, think about it – Bob _Armistead_? I'd rather be alone for the rest of my life. Hell, I'd even settle for Jack Champlain, but he only has eyes for you."

Lyssa shrugged. "You can have my secret admirer," she said. She hadn't mentioned the notes to anyone, but suddenly, she felt she needed someone else's opinion. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the latest note. Kelly glanced at it as they drove beneath a streetlight, then snatched it from Lyssa with her right hand.

"Where did this come from?" she demanded. "This is sick. Some kid thinks this is a _joke_?"

"I've been finding them every couple of days, stuck in my books, my jacket pockets, all over the place. I don't know who's leaving them there, but it's beginning to creep me out."

"What does Tyler say about them?" Kelly asked. Lyssa was silent. "You haven't told Tyler, have you? Lyssa! What if this isn't a joke? At least report this to the principal, for heaven's sake!"

Lyssa shrugged, feeling a bit foolish now. "That's all I need, for Tyler to commit assault and battery on some kid for leaving mash notes around. It's just a product of over-active hormones, Kelly. Some adolescent crush."

Kelly made a face which suggested that she didn't agree with Lyssa's optimistic conclusion, but didn't say anything else about the notes for the rest of the drive to Lyssa's house. By the time she unlocked the door, Lyssa had convinced herself that she was being wise not to overreact. By the time she crawled into bed, easing a sign language primer from the hands of a sleeping Tyler, she had forgotten all about the note.

**Project Quantum Leap Headquarters  
****Stallions Gate, New Mexico**

"Ziggy, what's Dr. Beckett's status?" Al asked casually as he punched the button for the elevator.

"Dr. Beckett is currently hang-gliding off the coast of Costa Rica."

Al looked up, a reflexive action, since Ziggy's voice seemed to come primarily from the ceiling. "I beg your pardon?"

"Or he may be asleep in Springfield, Massachusetts."

The Observer pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "You're not funny, Zig, so stop trying."

The hybrid computer's voice was smug as she replied, "According to this month's quiz, I am both charming _and_ witty, and it appears that you cannot appreciate my unique brand of humor due to your newly restrictive diet. It is making you cranky," she added in her breathy, sultry tones.

Al took a deep breath and counted to twenty in Italian. "Ziggy," he said carefully, enunciating every word, "I am so not in the mood for your brand of humor, witty or otherwise." He stabbed the elevator call button again. "What's with this thing?"

"I have asked it not to respond," Ziggy said.

Al felt himself begin to simmer. "And why is that?" he asked tightly.

"Dr. Calavicci has specifically asked you to exercise more frequently." The computer's voice took on a cheerful, peppy tone. "One way you can do this is by taking the stairs whenever possible. You may even want to consider obtaining two or three pound weights to carry as you make your daily rounds of the Project. Such simple steps can go a long way to controlling your weight and keeping your heart healthy and happy."

Al clenched his fists and counted again. "Ziggy."

"Yes, Admiral," she purred.

"I am ordering you to cancel your subscription to _Me_ magazine. Now."

"But – "

"_Now_, Ziggy."

There was a pause. "Done," the computer sulked. And the elevator door opened. Without another word, Al stepped in and punched the button for the Waiting Room level, with almost enough force to send it through the control panel. He spent the next several minutes trying to find his quiet center before he went to talk to the Visitor.

**June 11, 1983  
****Springfield, Massachusetts**

Lyssa frowned at the television, listening to the weatherman predict scattered thundershowers throughout the day. "Hey, Ty? Weatherman's predicting rain for this afternoon. Doesn't look good."

Sam poked his head around the bathroom door, a toothbrush stuck in his mouth. He pulled it out and said, "Oh."

Lyssa turned around slowly, exasperation written on her face. "Your memory is like Swiss cheese, my love," she said, and Sam froze. His "Swiss-cheesed brain," as Al called his unpredictably spotty personal memory, was an unfortunate by-product of Leaping through time at random. His wife waited a beat and said, "You forgot the school picnic. Today. You promised to umpire the softball game."

Sam decided to confess this time. "Okay, I forgot."

His wife studied him. "You made other plans. You're going in to the office?"

Sam got that strange feeling, the one he had learned never to ignore. He knew that life was a series of choices, and all of his Leaping around through other people's lives had convinced him that God, Time, Fate, or Whatever placed him in specific moments to make those choices that would change what had gone wrong, to choose a different door than the Leapee had chosen in that circumstance the first time around. This, he was sure, was one of those moments.

"Not anymore," he said slowly.

Lyssa sauntered closer, a saucy smile on her face. "You're the best," she said, running the tip of her index finger across Sam's bottom lip. "And I promise I'll make it worth your while…" Sam leaned closer, drawn like a moth to a flame. " . . . Later," she added, tapping the tip of his nose. "But right now, we gotta go." She ducked out of the bathroom, laughing.

'_No way she's cheating on Tyler,' _Sam thought, taking a few deep breaths to calm his body down._ 'There's no way.'_

In true New England fashion, the previous night's chill had given way to an afternoon of heavy, stultifying humidity. Sam removed his baseball cap one more time, and wiped his sweaty forehead with the crook of his elbow. Four innings into a seven-inning softball game, he had decided to call more strikes, even though neither pitcher could hit the strike zone with a two-by-four, in an attempt to end the game faster. He had already been beaned by three wild pitches, and his knee still throbbed from the impact of a flyaway bat. He wished it would just rain already.

Between batters, he scanned the park, keeping tabs on both Lyssa and Susannah. His subconscious had decided that there was no way Tyler could kill his wife, because he – Sam – was here, and he wasn't about to murder anybody. Which meant that Lyssa and Susannah had to have been kidnapped after the picnic, a fate he could easily avoid by never letting them out of his sight.

The sudden "How's it going, Sam?" from behind him distracted him long enough to receive a surprisingly solid pitch right in the center of his face mask. He fell backward, hitting the sand first with his butt – hard – then with his head. "Gah!" he groaned above the ringing in his ears. Unseen hands helped him up, and he could have sworn he saw stars.

"Hey," the algebra teacher/first base coach said, "you all right, there?" Sam nodded, spitting sand. "Let me take over for a while. You look like you could use a break."

"Thanks," Sam answered gratefully, with a look at Al, who was trying valiantly, and with little success, not to crack up. He handed over the dented face mask and the chest guard to the teacher. "Here. You're gonna need these." He gestured to Al with a nod, and headed over to the soda coolers.

There was no diet cola or bottled water available, so Sam reluctantly settled for a can of Dr. Pepper. He grimaced at the taste; he had forgotten how much he hated that soda. Raising the can to his lips again, he muttered, "I think Ziggy's theory is all wrong."

"I agree, Sam," Al replied, and Sam looked at him sharply, his mouth open. "Close your mouth, Sam, you're letting in flies. I said I agree." He unwrapped a candy bar and, with a sneaky glance off to the side, popped a piece into his mouth, rolling his eyes heavenward in ecstasy as he chewed. "I spent some time this morning with Tyler in the Waiting Room, trying to get a sense of him. I think you're right. He loves his wife and kid, wouldn't ever do anything to hurt them." He devoured the other half and stuck the wrapper guiltily into his trouser pocket.

Sam pretended not to notice the breach of diet protocol. Heaven knew, Al had been discreet enough about many of Sam's little misdeeds over the years. "What changed your mind?" he asked.

Al squinted around the playground, not meeting Sam's eye. "I asked him a couple questions. He told me how he and Lyssa met, what he loved about her, how scary it was for them when the baby got sick." He groped in his pocket for a cigar, but didn't light it. "Then I asked him what he would do if Lyssa ever decided to leave him."

"What'd he say?"

"He said, 'I would get down on my knees and thank her for letting me be in her life for even one minute.'" The Observer gazed at his friend then. "And I believe him. Because that's exactly what I would do if Beth ever left me."

The intensity in Al's eyes made Sam look away. He caught sight of Lyssa, standing a few feet away from Susannah, who was playing jump-rope with some other little girls. Just watching the exercise made him sweat more in the humidity. He was about to make a comment, when Al said, "Who's that guy with Tyler's wife?"

"One of the other English teachers, Jack something," Sam replied. "Why?"

Al pursed his lips. "Maybe I'm just a possessive Italian, but, don't you think he's standing a little close to her? And I'm pretty sure he just touched her _posteriore_. You think maybe that's the guy she's fooling around with?" At Sam's incredulous sputter, he added, "Just because Tyler's devoted to his wife, doesn't mean _she's_ not stepping out on the side."

"I'm telling you, Al, you're barking up the wrong tree with that theory." Sam took another swig of his nasty soda. "Maybe it's a stalker. Or just a random act. There's obviously no history of violence between Lyssa and Tyler, not with the way she's –" He stopped abruptly, blushing.

"The way she's all over you like a silk shirt?" Al prodded, just to make his friend blush harder. Predictably, he did, but was saved from further teasing by the fat drops of rain that began landing around him. Within a minute, the dirt at his feet had turned to sticky mud, and the teenagers were dashing for their cars. The teachers sprinted around the picnic area, gathering up trash and sports equipment, as the skies opened up. Drenched to the skin, Sam swept all of the unopened sodas into the cooler and stuffed the empty cans into the large trash container by the table, ignoring Al's complaint that they should be separated and recycled.

Lyssa ran over, carrying Susannah. "I'm going to get her into the car, Ty. She's soaked."

"I'll meet you there in a minute," Sam replied, balling up the plastic tablecloth. He took one last look around, then ran for the car, trying to ignore the illusion of raindrops falling through his perfectly dry, holographic friend.

Susannah was already strapped in, shivering, wet, and on the verge of tears. It took a few tries to get the engine in the clunky '72 Plymouth Valiant to turn over, and Sam had to remind himself not to flood the engine. Cold air poured out of the heating vent.

"I hate this car," Lyssa muttered, trembling in the passenger seat with her arms crossed. Sam switched on the headlights and headed slowly up the soupy access road toward the highway. At the turn-off to the main road, a hundred yards later, the engine gave a final mechanical groan, and died. Sam tried the ignition a few times, stomping on the gas. "Dammit," he swore under his breath, then said contritely, "Sorry," with a glance toward the child in the back seat.

"She can't hear you, sweetie, swear all you want." Lyssa opened the door with a sigh. "Let's go see what the problem is."

Neither Lyssa nor Sam had any idea what they were looking at or for after they popped the hood of the Valiant. Al, a car buff, suggested a few things, but nothing worked. The car, it seemed, had given up the ghost. Just as Sam threw his hands up in utter frustration, a pair of bright headlights appeared, illuminating the couple. The low-slung sports car stopped, and Jack Champlain stepped out.

"Problem?" he asked genially, his blond hair plastered to his head by the rain.

"Yeah, it just died," Sam said, wiping his wet face with an equally wet hand.

"Huh." Jack shrugged. "Well, I know there's a gas station up the road, just off the next exit. I can give you a ride." He cast a look at his sports car, a two seater. "Thing is, I can't carry all three of you. It's a great chick-magnet, but not very practical."

"We'll wait for you here," Lyssa suggested. "I'm sure you can get them to send a tow."

"Bad idea, Sam," Al warned. Sam scanned the road, pretending to consider, as the Observer went on. "Lyssa's body was found in the woods not far from here. You can't leave her out here alone. The car probably stalled in the original history, and she was a sitting duck for whatever maniac killed her."

"Yeah, I'm not crazy about leaving you two alone out here," Sam answered for Lyssa's and Jack's benefit. "I'll stay with the car. If you don't mind, uh, Jack, maybe you could stop off at the gas station, have them send a truck, and then take Lyssa and Susannah home?"

"Sure, no problem," Jack said, walking back to unlock the passenger door.

Sam gathered up the cold and miserable four year old, and placed her on Lyssa's lap inside the warm sports car. He pulled the shoulder strap across both of them and clicked it. "Be careful, honey," Lyssa said, reaching up to kiss him.

"I'll probably only be a couple hours," Sam said, giving her an affectionate, encouraging smile. "Be good," he signed to Susannah. She sleepily closed her eyes. The tires splashed mud on his already soaked sneakers as the sports car pulled away.

"Well, she's out of danger, anyway," Sam observed to Al as he slid back into the uncooperative Valiant. "Ready to Leap?" The two waited expectantly. Nothing happened. Sam felt his shoulders slump. "Somehow, I just knew it couldn't be that easy."

"You'll probably Leap once you get back to the house," Al suggested, opening the Chamber door.

"Yeah, maybe," Sam replied, shivering.

The sports car pulled into the gas station. Jack put a hand on Lyssa's arm as she groped for the door handle. "Let me. You've got your hands full." He climbed out of the car and headed for the gas station office, where he bought a pack of gum and a lottery ticket. After what he judged to be a credible amount of time had passed, he walked back out to the car and slid in. "All set."

On an access road, out in the middle of nowhere, Dr. Sam Beckett sat in a broken down old Plymouth with sugar in its gas tank, waiting for a tow truck that would never come.

**

* * *

**

PART FOUR

After a few uncomfortable minutes of listening to the rain pounding upon the roof, Sam unlatched the glove compartment, hopeful that maybe the vehicle manufacturer's manual might give him some clue to the car's malfunction. As he pulled the book out, several folded pieces of notebook paper floated to the floor. Opening one, he felt all of the blood drain from his face.

The notes were clearly directed to Lyssa, and they weren't love letters. Two lines in, Sam knew that the writer was both deeply disturbed and deeply obsessed. Worse, it was obvious that whoever had written the notes had been watching Lyssa for some time; he – Sam could tell it was a "he" – knew her evening routine, and even knew the color of her nightgown. Sam squinted in the light of the tiny glove box bulb, trying to examine the handwriting.

"Sam!" Al appeared abruptly beside him, and Sam almost jumped out of his skin, whacking his knee on the bottom of the steering wheel. "Ziggy cracked it. Lyssa's lover is Jack Champlain, the guy with the sports car!"

Sam shoved the note up close to Al's face, then crumpled it up in his hand and wrenched open the heavy car door. "He's not her lover, he's a stalker." The rain had let up a little, but it was still coming down hard. "Oh, my God – I gotta get home."

"Ziggy, center me on Lyssa Wallace!" Al yelled to the air. He disappeared for about three seconds, then reappeared. "Sam!" He had to run to catch up with his friend, who by then was running on the shoulder of the highway. "Sam, stop!"

The scientist whirled around, panic showing in his eyes. "What!"

Al held up a calming hand. "They're just getting to the house. We gotta get you a ride home. You can't run around looking like a crazy person, or nobody's gonna pick you up." He glanced at the handlink. "This isn't a busy stretch of highway, but there are a couple of cars heading this way. Try to flag one down."

As Al finished, a white Cadillac came into view. Sam stepped into the traffic lane and raised his arms, waving. The car swerved sharply around him, splashing him, and accelerated. Sam stumbled back and began sprinting again. "Keep trying," Al urged. "There's a pickup truck coming, ETA, fifty seconds." But that one didn't stop, either. Sam kept running.

* * *

"Thanks so much for the ride, Jack," Lyssa said, laying the sleeping girl on the sofa. "I really, really appreciate it." She removed Susannah's shoes and socks, and continued. "I need to get her dried off and in her bed. You want some tea?"

"That'd be great. Why don't I put the water on while you take care of Suzy-Q?" Jack headed for the kitchen before Lyssa could answer.

Lyssa wasn't crazy about the familiarity Jack displayed, but put it down to nerves. She wouldn't rest easy until Tyler was home; the tow truck should be there by now. She lifted her daughter and carried her into her bedroom. She could hear the clink of cups, saucers, and utensils from the kitchen; Jack apparently had found everything he needed.

Tucking Susannah in, Lyssa pulled at her own clammy clothes. She heard the kettle begin to whistle, and ducked into her bedroom to change into a pair of sweat pants, a tee-shirt, and her thick terry bathrobe. Feeling less like a drowned rat, she joined Jack in the kitchen.

His eyes glittered as he took in her attire. "That looks comfortable," he said, putting down his cup. "I wish I could get out of these wet clothes. Do you have a dryer? Maybe I could just -"

"I – I'd rather you didn't," Lyssa said uncomfortably. Her eyes drifted up to the kitchen clock. Jack followed her gaze.

"Oh, Tyler won't be home for hours yet," he commented quietly. "Hours. We have enough time." His fingers began to unbutton his cotton shirt.

"What are you doing?" Lyssa asked, her voice tense. "Jack?"

The man skirted the table slowly, like a jungle cat on the prowl. "Nothing you don't want, Lyss. I've seen how you look at me, especially after my little messages. They turn you on. I can tell."

Lyssa backed up, dragging a kitchen chair as a barrier between them. "You've been leaving me those notes? Those disgusting mash notes?"

Jack's face fell. "You just don't understand me, Lyss. But you will." And he lunged.

* * *

Six cars passed the frantic, bedraggled man and his invisible friend before a nondescript blue Chevy finally stopped. The driver leaned over and rolled down the passenger side window. "Hey, buddy, need a lift?" he asked, smiling through his bushy beard.

Sam could barely speak, he was so winded from alternately running up the highway and jumping in front of vehicles. "I gotta get home," he wheezed. "My car broke down. My – my little girl's sick…"

"No problem, man," the driver said, and Sam gave him directions. He knew it had taken them twelve minutes to drive from the house to the park that morning; perhaps there'd be no traffic. He leaned his head against the seat rest and tried to catch his breath, as Al yelled for Ziggy to center him on Lyssa again.

* * *

Lyssa stumbled down the hall, her feet tangling in the hem of her long robe. She darted into the bedroom and turned to slam the door, but Jack's arm was there, blocking, and he easily overpowered her. The door flew open, sending her reeling across the room. There was no escape.

Jack smiled. "You can stop playing hard to get now, Lyss," he said casually. "There's no one here but you and me."

"Tyler will be here any minute," Lyssa insisted.

"No, he really won't," Jack answered confidently. "That much I'm sure of." He advanced, and Lyssa saw with horror the glint of one of her kitchen knives, held tightly in his left fist. His right hand reached out and gently stroked her cheek, her chin. She struggled to keep herself calm, fully aware that her defenseless little girl was asleep in the room next door.

* * *

Al had disappeared again, trying to keep tabs on both Lyssa and Sam. He popped in one more time, riding the hood, and simply said, "Sam, _hurry_."

The bushy-bearded man was a careful driver, and kept to the speed limit with a precision that made Sam scream silently in his head. Finally, the Chevy pulled up to Tyler and Lyssa's little saltbox house. Sam fumbled for Tyler's wallet, murmuring thanks, but the driver just held up a hand. "Like I said, no problem, man. It's a _mitzvah_." Sam jumped out of the car and ran toward the house. "Hope your kid's okay," the driver called after him.

The front door was unlocked, a bad sign. "Lyssa?!" Sam yelled, crossing the living room. There was no answer. He moved cautiously, checking the kitchen first. One chair was overturned, lying on the floor. He crept slowly down the hall. "Al," he whispered, "where is she?"

"She's in the house, somewhere, Sam," the hologram answered, punching buttons, "but Ziggy can't get a – uh oh."

Sam hated that tone of voice, but he made himself turn around to see what Al saw. Susannah stood there, clutching a teddy bear, stark fear in her eyes. He held up his hands, hoping she would understand enough to stay where she was, and stepped forward. As he passed the bathroom door, he was tackled from the side. Both men fell to the floor. Sliding across the carpet on his back, Sam managed to get his hands up to grip Jack's forearms. The blade of the knife, glinting red, hovered inches away from his eye. The left side of Jack's face was deeply scored with four parallel scratches, the skin around his right eye was already beginning to darken, and his top lip was split and swollen.

Jack was a strong man, but Sam was a bit bigger. He clipped Jack on the chin with his elbow, and the two men rolled down the hall, each struggling to gain the upper hand.

"Al! Where's Lyssa?" Sam ground out, not taking his eyes off the knife. Both men now had their hands on the knife handle, with Jack having all the leverage as he pressed downward. Sam felt his arms vibrating as he fought against gravity to keep Jack from slitting his throat.

Al knew he only had seconds. He ran over to Susannah, who was now shaking like a leaf in a strong wind. "Where's Mommy, Susannah?" Al asked urgently. "Mommy!" From behind him, he heard Sam's grunt of pain as the tip of the knife began to pierce his shoulder. "Sam! How do you say 'Mommy' in sign?"

Sam didn't pause to consider this odd question. If Al was asking at a time like this, then it had to be important. "Right thumb on your jaw, then wiggle your fingers! Ahh!" Jack looked at him strangely, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about. In that millisecond, Sam gathered all of his strength and, with apologies to every man who had ever lived, jammed his knee viciously into Jack's groin. His attacker, instantly incapacitated, collapsed to the floor. Sam followed with a right cross, then a left hook, until Jack lay there, unconscious. He yanked the knife out of his shoulder and ran into the bedroom, trailing after Al.

Lyssa lay on the floor just inside the door. Sam laid the knife down and quickly checked for a pulse, which was weak, but there. He counted two wounds, one in the right chest, the other on her left forearm. He pressed his hand to the more serious injury and grabbed for the telephone cord. The heavy apparatus tumbled off of the bedside table with a clang. He dialed the operator and gave the address. "I need the police and an ambulance for a woman with a stab wound, right chest, above the sixth rib, in the anterior axillary line, and a laceration on her left upper outer arm." He laid the receiver down on the floor, took off his still-damp shirt, and placed it, folded, against Lyssa's side. She moaned, which, under the circumstances, was a good sign. After a few minutes, he lifted his hand. The bleeding was beginning to slow at least, he noted with relief.

Al's warning came a second too late. Sam felt a sharp pain as the handle of the knife made forceful contact with the back of his head. He hit the floor, stunned. Strong hands, fueled by desperation and a fair amount of madness, wrapped around his throat from behind, cutting off his air. He flailed his arms, seeing black spots form, hearing a cacophony of inarticulate yelling, high-pitched shrieking, and a series of loud thumps. All at once, the pressure on his throat eased, and Jack slumped to the ground.

Firm hands lifted him, gasping, to a sitting position, and he looked up to see two uniformed police officers, concern etched on their faces. "Take it easy, sir," one said solicitously, a warm hand sliding down to his wrist to check his pulse. "You're safe now." The other officer moved quickly to Lyssa's side, then gestured down the hall for the paramedics, who were just arriving.

Sam scooted out of the way to let the professionals work. He rubbed his throat, and winced as a shot of heat ripped through his torn shoulder. Then he froze and glanced around sharply. "Al!" he whispered hoarsely, "Where's Susannah?"

Al pointed to the closed closet door. "I figured you could take care of yourself, buddy," he said by way of explanation, "but that's something that a four-year-old shouldn't ever have to see."

Sam opened the door gingerly. Susannah crouched inside, still holding her teddy bear, eyes round as saucers. Sam didn't move, except to sign gently, "No hurt you." She hesitated, her breath hitching in little silent sobs, and then he barely caught her as she flung her little body at him and clung like a limpet. "It's gonna be okay," he murmured into her hair, not caring that she couldn't hear him. "Everything's gonna be okay." She hugged his neck harder.

Keeping the child facing away from the scene, Sam tried to peer around the emergency personnel who were transferring Lyssa to a gurney. Al checked the action in the hallway. "Damn. They only shot that nozzle in the leg."

**

* * *

**

PART FIVE

Sam studied Lyssa's medical chart, satisfied with her progress over the last twelve hours. He leaned forward in the bedside chair as he waited for her to float back up to consciousness. "Why haven't I Leaped, Al? Lyssa's not in any danger anymore, right?"

Al peered at the readout on the handlink. "Oh, no, you'll be happy to know that Mr. Psycho back there gets locked in the loony bin indefinitely, based on those whackadoo letters he kept leaving around. Twenty years later, he's still there. Now, that's one kind of institution I can get behind." He unwrapped a light brown bar, not hiding it, and took a healthy bite.

Sam eyed the unappetizing snack. "What _is _that?" he asked.

Al finished chewing before replying. "Oh, Ziggy did some hunting around and found these low fat, high good-whatever bars in one of her magazines. She ordered me a case, with Beth's blessing. They're not bad, once you get used to them." He scowled at the blinking handlink. "Oh, all right. You can have your subscription back. But no more elevator sabotage."

Sam dragged the conversation back on track. "And Lyssa? What happens to her?"

"Oh, she recovers completely, Sam. Spends a couple of weeks in the hospital, but she's fine. In fact, she's due to retire from teaching next year." Al grinned. "Guess it runs in the family. Susannah's a teacher, too, with a degree from Gallaudet University." He sobered a little. "This was a tough one, Sam. You had me scared there for a while."

"Me too," Sam answered solemnly. "What about Tyler? What happens to him?"

The handlink squealed, and for some reason, Sam thought it sounded like a laugh. "Oh, that weird little computer program you were working on will soon come to the attention of the CEO of a certain company." Sam raised his eyebrows. "You might have heard of it in your travels. Microsoft?"

Sam's jaw dropped. "You mean -?"

"Pays to get in on the ground floor. By the way, Ziggy wants to know if she can start calling Tyler 'Uncle Ty.' Says she feels like his goddaughter, since she owes so much of her personality matrix to him." The handlink squawked. "Oh, that was a joke? I couldn't tell."

Lyssa stirred slightly, and opened her eyes slightly. Sam moved to the bed and took her hand. "Hey," she breathed. She looked around the room. "Where's the baby?"

"Oh, she's over there," Sam replied, gesturing to the tiny couch that only a child would find comfortable. "She finally went to sleep, the little chatterbox. My fingers are all talked out." Lyssa smiled a little, then grimaced. "Easy there, looks like it's time for more drugs."

"I never would have thought that Jack –" she swallowed and her bottom lip began to tremble, "I worked with him all these years – I let him in our _house_, Ty. He could have . . ." she trailed off, fighting tears. "I am so sorry."

"From what I saw of him," Sam said quietly, "you put up a hell of a fight." He squeezed her hand. "He can't hurt you now."

Lyssa was quiet for a moment. "When can I go home?"

"Not for at least a week, maybe more," Sam answered, smiling. "Think of it as a vacation from us."

Her brow knit in worry. "Who's going to look after Susannah?" At Sam's expression, she laughed softly. "You? Oh, dear." Her obvious disbelief and amusement caused Sam to laugh as well.

A white-clad, copper-haired nurse bustled in and practically hip-checked Sam out of her way. With a reassuring smile for her patient and an irritated glance toward Sam, she emptied a hypodermic needle of fluid into the IV line, and Lyssa's eyes immediately became unfocused, fluttering shut. "Mm, promise me one thing, sweetie," she slurred.

"I know, I know," Sam answered, "no anchovies and beer for the baby." Lyssa drifted off to sleep mid-giggle.

"She needs to rest," the nurse said to him brusquely, and left.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Al and muttered, "Oookay." Turning from the bed, he saw that Susannah was awake now and watching him carefully.

"I'm willing to bet that's why you haven't Leaped, Sam." He gestured with his chin toward the child. "Probably not a good idea to disappear on her without any explanation, huh?"

Sam smiled and sat on the floor next to the couch. "I have to go now," he signed laboriously. "Your mommy's good."

"Daddy come home?" Susannah asked. Sam nodded. The little girl thought about this for a moment, her features gathering into a mild pout. "Him, too?" she added, pointing at Al.

"We're a team," Sam said.

"We're a team," she repeated, touching his arm and then her own shoulder.

"Yes, we are, and I need you to take care of your daddy when he gets back." She slid off the couch and climbed onto his lap. He felt his arms wrap around the child tightly. After a moment, he said, in a pensive voice, "Al, you remember what Tyler said about being in Lyssa's life?"

"Yeah," answered Al.

"And you said you felt the same way about Beth?"

"Yeah," Al said again, this time a little more slowly, suspicious about what might be coming next.

Sam looked up at him. "Have I ever loved anyone that way? Or been loved like that?"

Al bowed his head. "Oh, come on, Sam, don't do this to me. You know the rules. I can't tell you what you don't already remember."

"Screw the rules," Sam half-growled, half-pleaded. "The next Leap will probably magnaflux me again, and I won't remember it anyway."

More than forty years before, the Observer had resisted fierce interrogation under the harshest of circumstances; starvation, beatings, and torture had failed to penetrate his iron will. But now the hopeful, desperate green gaze of his best friend undid him completely. He pinned his eyes on the handlink display screen, hoping that Ziggy would firmly remind him of the strict directive that was the lynchpin of the Leaper's ability to do what he needed to do.

She left the Observer dangling on his own.

"Al, _please_," Sam said, starting to feel the familiar pins-and-needles sensation. "I need to know."

Al thought of Donna, and Sammi-Jo, and Stephen, all of them relentlessly pursuing the goal of bringing Sam – husband, father, scientist, tilter at windmills – home to stay. He wondered if the images in his mind telegraphed themselves through the shared brainwaves between Leaper and Observer.

Sam began to dissolve into blue light. Al squeezed his eyes shut and said clearly, "Yes, Sam. Yes, you have. You _do_. You _are_." When he opened his eyes, nineteen eighty-three was gone, Sam was gone, and he stood alone in the Imaging Chamber.

("Not While I'm Around," from _Sweeney Todd_, ©Stephen Sondheim, 1979.)


End file.
